TOILET PAPER AND ITS PREDECESSORS
We’ve come a long way since the days when people took matters into their own hands
One of the first signs of impending doom presented by the appearance of COVID-19 was the disappearance of toilet paper from store shelves. People panicked at the possibility of their bottoms being assaulted by rough paper ripped from paper bags or magazines. Actually, there was never any need to be so spooked, because even during the lockdown, paper producers were deemed to be an essential service and toilet paper was being rolled out at a normal rate. The perceived shortage did have an effect, though. It focused the spotlight on this commodity as well as on the various methods to which people historically resorted in pursuit of eliminating remnants of nature’s call.
In ancient times, the handiest solution was, well, the hand. Usually the left. That’s why in some cultures, eating, or even just touching someone with the left hand, is still regarded as a “sinister” practice. The ancient Greeks used stones, while the Romans favoured a “xylesphongium,” a natural sponge on a stick inserted through a vertical opening on the front of a stone toilet seat. There was no need to stand up to finish the job. Interestingly, a modern incarnation of this device is available for overweight people, but instead of a sponge, the gadget holds a piece of toilet paper.
In Africa, the large feathery leaves of the Peltophorum Africanum tree, also known as the “toilet tree,” have a long history of use. Medieval monks used cut up pieces of habits that had become too threadbare to wear. They referred to these as “anitergium,” from the Latin “ani” for “anus,” and “tergeo,” “to scrape.” In the 16th century, there apparently were enough rumblings about various wiping options for the Renaissance writer Rabelais to satirize them in his classic Gargantua and Pantagruel, a work that has a whole chapter devoted to different methodologies. His conclusion was that the best results were achieved with the head of a well-downed goose held between the legs. Rabelais claimed a further benefit in that “you will feel in your rear a most wonderful pleasure.” As far as I know, no corroborating evidence is available to demonstrate the benefits of such goosing.
Henry VIII wasn’t keen on taking the matter into his own hands, so he appointed a “Groom of the King’s Close-stool” whose job was to unsoil the royal rear. The close-stool was a throne with a hole and a chamber pot. It was equipped with a lid that could be locked to ensure that only the King’s bottom would enjoy the upholstered seat. Henry’s daughter, Queen Elizabeth I, followed her father’s practice, but changed the name of the attendant to the more delicate, “First Lady of the Bedchamber.” Over in France, Louis XV’S mistress, Madame de Pompadour, used only the finest French lace, while Madame de Maintenon, Louis XVI’S second wife, favoured the ultra-soft wool of Merino sheep.
In America, the large, velvety leaves of the mullein plant were popular, but the most significant American contribution was the corn cob. With the kernels removed, this proved to be so effective that even up to the 1940s it was common to find corn cobs in outhouses along with catalogues from which pages could be torn. Farmlands in Middle America were sometimes referred to as the “cob and catalogue” belt.
There are Chinese references to wiping with paper as early as the sixth century, and evidence that special tissues were produced on a large scale for the imperial court by the 14th century. In North America, though, toilet paper did not appear until 1857, when Joseph Gayetti introduced “paper for the water closet.” Given that pages from free catalogues were readily available, he needed a marketing gimmick. The “health gambit” fit the bill. Gayetti claimed that Americans were ruining their physical and mental health by wiping with printed paper that had “death-dealing” chemicals such as lampblack, oxalic acid, oil of vitriol and chloride of lime. His “Medicated Paper” was “pure as snow.” Unlike catalogue paper, it wouldn’t cause hemorrhoids and “would cheat physicians out of their fees.” When flush toilets became more common, he cleverly changed the pitch to “this paper will dissolve so that it will not like ordinary paper choke the water pipes.”
The next breakthrough came with engineer Seth Wheeler patenting the perforated toilet paper roll in 1877. Then Clarence and Irvin Scott took sales to new heights with an emphasis on softness. An ad featured a woman’s complaint to a doctor that her husband was becoming abusive. Perhaps, the doctor suggested, he may be irritated by bad bathroom tissue. The paper was too rough, which he demonstrated by showing it was opaque to light. But the light passed right through Scott’s “Waldorf” paper. Switching to this “they became the happiest couple in town.”
Today, in this unhappy COVID-19 era, at least some happiness is to be found in not having to worry about running out of toilet paper. We can even have it formaldehyde-free, chlorine-free, Bpa-free, unscented and recycled. We can even squeeze the Charmin without Mr. Whipple interfering, as he did in the famous ads from years ago. joe.schwarcz@mcgill.ca
Joe Schwarcz is director of Mcgill University’s Office for Science & Society (mcgill.ca/oss). He hosts The Dr. Joe Show on CJAD Radio 800 AM every Sunday from 3 to 4 p.m.